If he had ever had a son, it would have been hard not to have named him Uncial. Poor kid.
Not that there had been much risk of that: “calligrapher” had never been a particularly sexy job title at any point on human history, least of all ten years into the third Christian millennium. He was forty-two now, and the only curves he had ever spent intimate time with were the graceful curves of his Carolingian majuscules.
For the past five years or so he rarely left the studio. The cot against the far wall, the camp stove in the corner, even the pen of geese outside for quills — there was no real need for him to leave. But every day, at least once, he still wondered: wondered what it would have been like to not have been alone.
